Stigmata
by laroseanglaise
Summary: Enjolras and Combeferre, slashy undertones and heavy Catholic symbolism. Go blood!


**A/N: This is old. Old old old old OLD. Back in Ye Olde Tiems, when I was just a wee little teenaged tot... thing, I wrote this monstrosity after poking about a Chatbox for too long. I was exhausted, probably feverish, so I sat down to write. Three hours later, _this_ appeared. **

I can still remember what happened as if it had only happened yesterday. It was late in the afternoon, on a Friday, nearly approaching four o'clock. No one had seen Combeferre that afternoon... the meeting had begun around two, he had said he'd be late, and he'd find me later. I thought nothing of it... until midnight approached. I began to worry about Antoine, praying that something horrid hadn't happened in my abscence. What could, I never would know, but I did know that it left me disturbed. I found a note from him when I arrived home at our flat. He said he had gone to visit family, and he didn't know how long he'd be gone. I was somewhat calmed, and I went to sleep that night, thinking that was where he was.

A week passed, of meetings with the Amis, of not knowing. It was strange, not having Antoine there. It was worse in our flat, without him there beside me at night, keeping me warm and saving me from loneliness. I began to miss him terribly. I never would have expected before that I was such a lonely person. I had always considered myself free from such passions... Antoine being the obvious exception. I was in love with him. Over the course of just a few short months, he had become my life. I could not imagine living without him, and I waited for him to come back.

I waited another hour, and found, returning from the Musain that I hadn't much longer to wait.

He was sitting at the table, hunched over and silent. He seemed to be weeping. I was terrified for him and ran to him immediately.

"_Noli me tangere_..." he whispered suddenly, his voice barely more than a breath.

"What?" I asked in near shock, stepping back quickly. Antoine wasn't one to break into Latin, not normally. The longer I gazed at him, the more changed he appeared. He was drained, a bit weary. But only physically. His eyes... he didn't seem to see the table, the window, hell the entire _room _seemed to be separated from his gaze. It was as if he saw through it all, as if it wasn't really there at all. "Antoine... what's wrong? Did something happen in your family?" I asked, concerned.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you." he rasped, burying his face in his hands and letting stray locks of his thick, deep brown hair fall over his brow. I had never seen him like this, never.

"Antoine, please... look at me... tell me what-" I stopped short, my eyes widening as they met his. His eyes were always handsome, now they seemed ethereal, as if the green were glass in the Cathedral de Notre Dame, the dawn shining behind it.

"Timothée... you must promise... not to tell a soul..." he whispered, pulling his hands toward himself and gazing at me, his face shrieking turmoil even as his eyes whispered peace. He looked at his hands for a moment, saying calmly, "Just promise me that, and that's all I shall ask of you."

I nodded weakly, wanting to be frightened, knowing I should be frightened, but I couldn't bring myself to it. Antoine was too calm, too peaceful to be afraid. "I promise. What is it?" He stared gently at his hands, which I noticed were hidden by his coat sleeves. He peeled back the coat, revealing bandanges soaked through with deep crimson spots of blood. "Mon Dieu, Antoine, what happened?" I gasped, trying to take his hands and examine it.

"No, Timothée, please, don't... don't." he said, pulling his hands away from me. He unwound the linen covering the ghastly wounds, and I inhaled sharply. This... no, this wasn't... it couldn't...

"Antoine... what is-"

"At three o'clock in the afternoon, on Friday, a week ago... I, ah... I received-"

"Do you expect me to believe this?" I asked, incredulous, nearly furious. "You've suddenly just, out of nowhere, developed wounds on your hands for no good-"

"Timothée, it's not just my hands." He said quietly, and I stopped immediately. He continued softly, staring at the wounds. "It was... at first... I'm not even sure why, why it happened to me, why I was chosen... but it has." His words both terrfied me and calmed me. It was troubling, to see Antoine so resigned. "I was late, you know. It became close to three, and I knelt to pray... right there..." he said, gesturing vaguely toward a crucifix on the wall. "I was suddenly blinded, and... Timothée, I saw Christ." The silence in the air, I thought, would stifle me, surely. It was... unbelieveable. He couldn't be... not... not that Antoine wasn't holy. Or unholy for that matter. Antoine was a man... like any other man. I had thought... "He took my hands... and..." he still stared at his hands, but not in terror. It was another emotion I could not describe, even if I chose to.

"Is that all?" I asked weakly, not knowing what to say. It was strange. So strange, I didn't... I couldn't believe that it had happened. "Is that... is that all? Can't you go to a priest and have that removed?"

He looked at me sadly. "No, Timothée... it's not like that... it's a spiritual gift... I should be grateful-"

"_Grateful_? When is it going to _go away_, Antoine?" I asked, sounding much harsher than I had intended.

"I don't know..." he said. "It's actually become worse... it was just on my hands... I noticed it on my feet three days later... it's begun to spread Timothée... I've noticed it on my shoulders, on my back... look." He took a hand and pulled his hair away from his forehead. Horrified, I gazed at the pin-pricks that began on his forehead, open little wounds that seemed to glimmer in the dimming light.

"Antoine..." I could say nothing else.

"The Crown of Thorns..." he reminded me gently, releasing his hair and wincing.

"What is it, Antoine?" I gasped, concerned. I didn't know what to do. He was my friend, my lover. I didn't want to see him suffer, much less suffer at the hand of a Being who I could not see, could not know. I didn't want this for him. I wouldn't want this for anyone.

"It's painful. You see?" He held his hands up for me to see. "It goes completely through my hand. I could fit a nail-"

"Stop, Antoine, _stop_." I said firmly, kneeling before him. "I don't want this. You didn't ask for this. You don't deserve this!"

He stared at his palms, sorrow darkening his eyes. "I know I don't deserve it." He curled his fingers over it, his hands trembling. "But here it is."

I didn't know what to do. I suggested that he go to bed immediately, and he agreed. I had to half-carry him because of the pain in his foot, and only half-carry because of the pain in his shoulders.

Weeks passed.

I had to lie. I had no choice. What would the others say if they found out about Antoine's condition? It wasn't easily explained away, and by then, Antoine was in too much pain to leave the bed. The terrible wounds deepened and spread, Antoine's back becoming a tangled mess of flesh that bled constantly, his shoulders stained permamently purple from bruises that came from nowhere, his forehead tightly wrapped to keep the blood out of his eyes. He couldn't walk, he could hardly breathe. His asthma irritated him endlessly, and I could do nothing. The pain appeared only to subside when he was in prayer, but even then, it would sometimes intensify in the middle of a Pater Noster. He didn't ask for a priest, so I didn't bring him one. I tended him, I fed him for the first two weeks, after that, he refused to eat. In the third week, I was tired. It was draining. Antoine didn't seem to even see me anymore. He was either fumbling his rosary or lost in some unspeakable ecstasy.

In short, I was losing him.

I asked him, one day, as I was wiping blood from his face, if he thought we would ever be together again.

"What do you mean?" he asked breathlessly, struggling with a mild episode of asthma and clenching the sheets from pain. His eyes had changed, it was as if the Antoine who had embraced me so many months ago and whispered that he loved me was completely gone, and another man stood in his place, and looked out through his eyes.

"What do I mean?" I asked, trying not to be angry with him. "Antoine... do you not remember what we had? How much you loved me-"

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Timothée... it was wrong. What we did-"

No. No. NO. "Antoine, what are you talking about-"

"You know what I'm talking about. Timothée, we shouldn't have-"

"Antoine, what are you talking about? You love me! I know you loved me! You loved me more than you could express, isn't that what you said? Didn't you swear that you loved me and only me and that you didn't want anyone else. You didn't care that we were... Antoine, please... it wasn't... it couldn't have been wrong... Antoine we were in love-"

"More foolish things than what we've done have been committed in the name of love, Timothée." he breathed. I only stared at him, hoping he could see the misery crawling across my face.

He was gone. I couldn't argue with him. It was too much. Too much to see him covered in blood, bleeding from every moment of every painful passing hour, but never bleeding to death. I had begun to slack on the meetings, leaving them all to Courfeyrac, but now, I saw nothing to lose. Antoine was gone. The Antoine who I had made love to, the Antoine who had perfected and completed me...

...was gone.

I decided to attend the meetings again. I went once. It was a Friday, I don't even know how I remember. An early morning meeting, as everyone seemed to have plans that evening. Except me, my only plan being to tend to the the stigmatic who lie trapped in his bed. I dragged myself home, tired and worn from loss. I approached the door, but I stopped as I drew closer. I heard a woman's voice, soft and small, seeping from inside.

Terribly confused, I quickly unlocked the door, and threw it open, crying "_Antoine_!"

I will never forget what I saw inside the room.

There was a woman, a girl, really. She couldn't have been older than fourteen, carrying a child. She looked at me with mild surprise, as did the child, whose hands rested on Antoine's head. Antoine was on his knees, which shocked me at first. The only thing I thought was _'he can't be on his knees, they're scraped _open'. The woman glowed unnaturally, the child's own aura overlapping hers and shining far brighter.

The child suddenly seemed to grow, becoming a man even as I watched. I remained fixed to the spot, thinking that I should close the door, but I remember it being closed already somehow. The woman set the child down, and in a moment there stood an olive skinned man, still holding Antoine's head in his hands. He bent forward, kissed Antoine, and vanished.

Antoine collapsed on the floor, his body slamming into the cold wood with a sickening thud.

I screamed his name and ran to him, turning him face up. "Antoine! Antoine, don't... Antoine, please_... Antoine_..."

"If you could see... if you could have seen..." he whispered, almost incoherent. "If you could have seen... oh God..."

He died in my arms.

I didn't know what to do. I lay there for hours, covered in blood and becoming lightheaded in the smell that came from the wounds. Like roses... only headier, richer, more intoxicating.

They found us together. I was asleep and they thought we had both died. I wish we had. They tore me away from him and scrubbed the blood off of my body, but the smell remained. I went to his funeral, and had nothing to say to anyone present.

I write this as I visit his grave, the smell of roses still seeping from the soil.

_Requisicat in Pace, Antoine Combeferre. May I see you in Paradise soon._


End file.
